LIFE AND DREAMS 



POEMS 



By E. L. E. 






NEW YORK: 
Copyright, 1895, ^"^ 

G. W. Dillinghain, Publisher, 

Successor to G. W. Carleton & Co 

MDCCCXCV. 
\All Rights Reserved.'] 



CONTENTS 










Page 


Invocation 9 


A ReaLcm for Song 1 1 


The Violin .... 








• 13 


The Voices of the Wind . 








15 


Dancing at Dawn 








16 


The Lark .... 








17 


The Nightingale . 








18 


Why the Nightingale Sings 








19 


In Pleasant Valley 








20 


Autumn Travelers 








22 


A Humanitarian . 








^2> 


The Alpine Horn 








24 


Night 








25 


The Old Garden .... 








26 


Midnight Revelry 








27 


Maiden Reveries . 








28 


Love's Absent© . 








29 



m 



VI 



Contents, 



Morning 

Recognition 

My Dream . 

To Janie 

On Her Photograph 

Jaine .... 

April 1892 

To an Unanswering God 

An Answer . 

The Soul's Journey 

Death's Mystery . 

Resignation . 

Calling on Death . 

Clairvoyante 

Anguish 

Death Found 

Madness 

Death Waits 

Death the Consoler 

Sargent's Picture 

Sonnets 

Evening in Pleasant Valley 

Day and Night 

My House of Dreams . 

The Haunted Garden . 

The Old House . 

Late Happiness . 

The Enchanter's House 



Contents. 



The Place of Dreams 

My Lady's Chamber 

Going with Death 

Longing for Death 

Starlight and the Moon 

Heavenly Promises 

The Silent Guest . 

At Death's Door . 

Deatli's Messenger 

The Palace of Death 

The Retreat 

Consolation 

Threnody 

Returned 

Cytherea 

The Trespass 

The Winds . 

Echo . 

May 

June 

The Protecting Oak 

The Oak's Plea for Violets 

The Voice in the Oak 

Sunrise , 

A Poet's Choice . 

Love Unattended 

Resignation . 

Lilies and Roses . 



VI 1 

Page 
88 
89 
91 
94 
95 
96 

97 

99 

100 
102 
106 
no 

113 
116 
118 
119 
121 
123 
128 
128 
130 
132 

135 
136 
138 

139 
141 

143 



vm 



Contents, 





Page 


The Withered Rose 


. 145 


Love and Sorrow . . . . • 


. 147 


Silent Companionship .... 


. 149 


Arachne's Robe 


. 151 


The Laurel 


• 152 


Worldly Goods 


. 154 


My Quiet Hours ....•• 


. 155 


Autumn Revery 


. 158 



INVOCATION. 

What thou hast promised, when thy Soul 
Awoke, thou must fulfill. To sit 
Beneath the solemn dome where Life 
Is hid in shadow, hearing there 
The litany of Death. Thou art 
Within the great Pavilion, where 
They rest who come from battle. Here 
They put their armor off, and have 
New robes ; learning to bend the knee 
Before the royal messenger. 
Think not thy Soul can enter Heaven 
Alone. The mighty gates move on!}'- 
With golden keys. So keep thy faith 
With him who guided thee. 



POEMS. 



A REASON FOR SONG. 

At Dawn a bird sang- loud ; but hushed 
Her voice at noon ; and when the Day 
Declined, her song- again rang soft 
And clear among the boughs where she 
Was hid. 

" Who is this singer ?" said 
A sleepy Owl who waited night. 
"This is no time for music, when 
The shadows lengthen in the West, 
And all the earth is growing dim." 
** I am too late for wedding songs," 
The singer said, '' for nests were built 

[II] 



12 



At morn. But I can sing- to them 
Who sit alone — their young ones gone, 
Sighing for loneliness." 

Then said the Owl : *' There is no need 
For singing in the Day. When Night 
Has come, I can call out my notes 
Of consolation. I will cry 
That Night is better than the Day ; 
For then we sleep — and so forget." 
** But I must sing." the the other said, 
*' For all the morning I was sad. 
And sang not. Now I would bring joy 
To them who are like me, bereft 
Of nestlings and of nest. For I 
Am sitting alone on a windy bough 
And the Day is ending ; but yet 
My heart is bursting with song !" 



13 



THE VIOLIN. 



Bring- my old Violin. I might again 

Evoke the Spirit that has dwelt there since 

The wood was taken from the tree, and made 

A chamber for the Soul of melody. 

If I can wake her from her slumber, she 

Will bring the rapture of the early hours, 

When I with her soared to the skies. Then, Life 

Was fair. I had not known the stress of Love 

And Madness. Now, the Spirit may not come 

For me. Yet will I call. Give me again 

My Violin. The strings may break beneath 

My passionate touch ; and there may only come 

A sighing from the depths. But yet I know 

That still my Spirit dwells within. 



H 



II. 

Above the rest I fly, on Music's wings. 

She came to me when she had heard my voice, 

And so together we attain the skies ; 

And in and out among the stars we go, 

Leaving the other louder instruments 

To follow us in upward, echoing flight. 

The soft harp trembles far below. The Voice 

Of man in vain calls after us. We soar 

To Heaven's gate, and join the Lark. When we 

Have reached the borders of the firmament. 

The wings of Music droop. We must return 

To Earth. So down the skies we come, all faint 

With ecstacy;and Souls are hushed to hear 

Our dying fall. 



15 



THE VOICES OF THE WIND. 

The West wind has no voice. The South 
Is full of melody. The North 
Is vague. And all the East is full 
Of memories. Would that I sat 
Protected from the voiceless West. 
It chills me, for it whispers naught. 
Let me come rather to the top 
Of sun-kissed hills, and feel the South 
Breathe Music. Let me go again 
Across the Desert, where the palms 
Have caught the East wind. Let me feel 
I am not quite alone. The winds 
Were my companions. Now will I 
Invoke them. South and East I love. 
Let West and North blow elsewhere. 



i6 



DANCING AT DAWN. 

When harps and viols cease, and lights are dim, 

And the fair guests have left the hall, I come 

And walk an old-time minuet with him 

Who stood behind the dancers, cold and dumb, 

While the bejewelled night was in its prime. 

None saw him, for his mantle is of mist 

That hides its wearer, till arrives the time 

Before the dawn, when we no more resist 

Life's call. So when the guests are gone, we dance 

Together in the silent room, all bare 

Of splendor and of light. And when wc glance 

In the long mirrors, we alone are there; 

And we are like the Spirits of the Dead, 

Who lead the minuet, when Life has fled. 



THE LARK. 

He sings without the gate. Within 

An angel listens. When the song 

Is done, he brings the singer where 

His Master sits. Then He, with eyes 

Uplifted from his missal, says : 

"Why bring this earthly songster here, 

Where choirs of angels all day long 

Make Heaven ring ?" The angel said : 

'' There is no Lark in all the choir. 

I thought you would be glad." But, no : 

" The Lark's Song," says He, " is too clear. 

Above the viols and the harps 

It would be thrilling. Leave the Lark 

Outside the gate." 

So now he sings 
Just where the angels catch the notes, 
When harp and viol tremble low, 



i8 



THE NIGHTINGALE. 

He sought a red rose ; for his song 

Was made for such a flower. Not one 

Was left in all the garden. So 

The night was passed in silence. When 

The Diwn had come, a white rose blushed 

And shamed the silent Niglitir.gale. 

So then his song at morning was 

The sweetest. Roses white were glad ; 

Red roses paled with jealous}-. 

But 3^et at night he sang no more. 

A blush had changed the Nightingale 

From a dark lover of the night 

To morning's friend. But rivalry 

Divides white roses from the red. 



19 



WHY THE NIGHTINGALE SINGS. 

Where learned the Nightingale his song ^ 
Not from the Brook, nor from the Wind, 
They have no notes like his. 

They say 
A spirit prisoned in a Rose 
Awakes the Nightingale, and turns 
His heart to melody. For when 
The Rose is dead, the Nightingale 
No longer sings. He sits alone 
In the dark thicket ; and he dreams 
Of roses all the dying year. 
But he is dumb. The \\ind may blow 
On reedy pipes ; the Brook may purl 
In silver tones ; but never he 
Follows them in a burst of joy ; 
The Spirit of the Rose is gone. 



20 



IN PLEASANT VALLEY. 



All day their song-, monotonous and sweet, 
The Orioles rehearse. From robins' throats 
Fly a full score of brilliant winged notes, 
Thrilling the maples in their passage fleet, 
And filling the great Elm with melody. 
The river, flowing in its shaded bounds, 
Yields a rich undertone of silver sounds, 
Forever murmuring it would be free ! 
Weary, perhaps, of emerald shores and skies 
Descending to its depths, to there renew 
Their beauty, and be clad in deeper blue. 
Weary of clouds, and the night's starry eyes ; 
And only loneiusf for the wild-bird's wings ; 
Forgetting how brief the season that he sings. 



21 



II. 



Long- time the river has in which to hymn 
Its aspiration, or its fate lament ; 
In Spring- or Summer still its voice imspent. 
Dark Autumn storms the azure skies may dim, 
Yet they but swell its volume. Winter alone 
Can hush, with icy hand, its restlessness. 
Neither its murmured jo)^ nor its distress 
Can reach that heart of frost ; only a moan 
When some swift skater careless breaks his way 
Down to the gloom. 

But spring can melt the frost. 
Then leaps the river gladly. Soon is lost 
The memory of bondage, and all day 
We hear complaint of Summer — staring skies. 
And flying clouds, and the night's million eyes. 



22 



AUTUMN TRAVELERS. 

The rainy nights have come. The lonesome woods, 

Abandoned by the fire-flies and the moon, 

Stretch vaguely their dark branches in the mist 

By paths uncertain we have found a roof, 

Whose hospitality will shelter us 

Till morn. So from the darkness and the night 

We enter into light and cheer. Yet all 

The while we hear the whisper of the rain ; 

Like the sad spirit who has come with us 

Even to the door, but cannot farther pass. 

We would not open to him ; and we feel 

He should have stayed among the lonely trees. 

And found a shelter. The thick cypresses 

Would welcome him, and keep him in their depths. 



23 



A HUMANITARIAN. 

The winter rain is freezing as it falls. 
In my old garden one poor sparrow calls 
At the high window ; but I open not. 
He may be cold, but I have long forgot 
The language of Complaint. To me his note 
Means nothing. Still, I hope his feathery coat 
Will keep him warm ; and some kind soul will give 
Spare crumbs ; then if, by chance, the bird should 

live 
Till Summer comes, that in my garden old 
He will not stay too long, nor be too bold. 
The sparrows are a predatory race ; 
Yet from their depredations, by God's grace, 
I have been long exempt. But now, I fear, 
I must set snares in all the trees next year. 



H 



THE ALPINE HORN. 

The melancholy hills at night 
Gloom silently against the sky, 
Whose vault seems darkness. 
Deserted stand they ; watch-fires blaze 
No longer, and no Echo hints 
Of expectation. Morning breaks. 
From firmament to summit shine 
The herald torches that announce 
The Day is coming ! Then the horns 
Wind softly. Deeper, louder, all 
The hills reverberate, again 
And yet again announcing— Day. 



25 



NIGHT. 

A night without a Star has come. 
Clouds have arisen from the sea, 
And taken threatening shape. A Dove, 
That spread her snowy wings across 
The Eastern heavens, has taken flight 
And a dark Eagle holds the West. 
His pinions stretch from horizon 
To zenith ; and his awful head 
Obliterates the moon. Below, 
Where underneath the leafless trees 
The sad Earth nourishes the worm. 
We sit among the shades. The Night 
Enwraps us in her deep embrace. 
We are forgot by all but Death. 



26 



THE OLD GARDEN. 

The ghosts that walk below are Violets 

And Roses, that in this neglected place 

Once grew ; so long ago, they have forgot 

Who was their Lady. So they come for you 

To show how Death in his dark kingdom keeps 

The tender flowers, fair and beautiful 

As when they blossomed here. The Voices low 

You hear in the old trees, the very winds 

May be that blew a hundred years ago. 

They died among the blossoms of the Spring ; 

But live again in leafless boughs, and tell 

Their tale ! But melancholy thoughts always 

Have followed Autumn Winds. So listen not, 

Turn rather to the minstrelsy that lives 

In the charmed pages of your books. 



27 



MIDNIGHT REVELRY. 

Deep in the thick woods we had wandered; 

The owls were awake, and the crickets 

Were calling each other. The fairies 

Were just coming home, so I saw them. 

One beauty was decked out in silver ; 

Another was flaunting in purple ; 

And all were en wreathed with bright garlands. 

A night-moth whirled dizzily by me. 

A creature wide-winged, and ecstatic 

With wine or with dew, followed after. 

I thought there was dancing ; but never 

Was certain if whirling were dancing, 

Or dancing meant whirling in circles, 

And nodding across at each other, 

As they did. Some flowers assisted, 

And waved in the night-wind. 



2% 



MAIDEN REVERIES. 

We gathered some ferns ; they were fit for 
The gate of a palace. So stately 
And hghtly they nodded good morning, 
We thought they were whispering stories 
Of forests enchanted, where fairies 
Come silently dancing at midnight. 
They decked the broad gate of our palace 
All day. But at night they had faded ; 
And so we removed them. A token 
Of Love unrequited, we brought them 
As solace to One who was slighted. 
All night in the rain at her cottage 
Dark door they were left. In the morning 
They had not revived ; but she waited. 



29 



LOVE'S ABSENCE. 

Love comes not when we call. She goes 

Upon her way, nor turns to see 

Who follows. Where she goes we know not. 

Only that she is gone ; and we 

Alone sit with the shades that haunt 

The chamber where we lived with her. 

To keep us company there comes 

Another, whom we call in vain 

By Love's sweet name. Sorrow is she, 

And on Love's bed she rests, and chills 

It, so we sleep no more therein. 

All night, waking, we talk with her. 

When morning comes, we sleep with Death- 

Since Love returns no more. 



MORNING. 

Not when the birds are beginning 
Their matins; but just as the Dawn 
Comes tip-toeing over the hills, 
Weary, I rise from my slumbers. 
I open the window, and softly 
Floats from the morning a feather, 
Dropped in her flight. She has vanished 
In flying. I follow : and all 
Through the Day I pursue her. But 
Never, from Dawn till the Evening, 
Catch faintest glimpse of her pinions. 
Gone to the uttermost ether. 
She hides herself with the planets. 
Never again will I open 
My window at Dawn and look forth, 
Lest I frighten the morning 1 



31 



RECOGNITION. 

In morning-, or at evening's twilight hour, 
I come to her who at my portal waits. 
Softly I open, that no light or sound 
May reach her from my Paradise. I touch 
Only her garment's hem ; and swift she turns 
To him she cannot see. Then on her brow 
I place my wreath of amaranth. And she, 
Trembling, although with blinded eyes, will say 
" My Master comes !" 

This is enough. I ask 
No more of that dark outer world. I go 
Back to my Paradise, and find new bloom 
On all the trees, new beauty in the skies ; 
Since in my doorway there is one who wears 
The flowers I gather, and believes them blest. 



32 



MY DREAM. 

I dreamed my Love was dead, and that his bier 

Stood at the portal of my house ; no tear 

Fell from my eyelids, as I stood alone, 

Apart from him. My heart was like a stone, 

For near him wept a Vision of the Sin 

He had embraced. And she had entered in 

The palace of my Dreams, and so I turned 

Away to my lone chamber, where still burned 

Within the fragrant torch that he had brought 

To light our nightly slumbers. I had wrought 

A fairy tale in the broad coverlet that spread 

Its silken wonder over the great bed. 

So there I went alone ; and left with Her 

The corse of my Beloved. Should he stir 

In his last sleep (I dreamed), she would be there 

To quiet him with dagger pricks. Though fair 

My Love had been, yet Death had made him pale; 

And liad I wept, my tears could not avail 

To bring his roses back. So let him lie 



33 

Out there with Her! So cruelly, said I, 

In this, my dream of my true Love being dead. 

When I awoke, and found my heavy head, 

Lying on his breast, I said : '' Where is thy Sin ?" 

And he said : " I have never let Her in, 

Though loud she knocked. I am secure with thee." 



So, though my Love be dead, he still shall rest 
with me. 



34 



TO JANIE. 

For thee, no tolling bell, nor sound 
Of falling- earth, nor deathly ecent 
Of funeral flowers ; no pageantry 
Bearing away thy corse. Only 
The angels tell me thou art gone 
From earthly sorrows. 

I with thee 
Knew only T^ife and Joy. Thou hast 
No grave ; and never may I weep 
For thee. The hour of our farewell 
Was known in Heavon alone. But now 
From Paradise thou seest me here 
Awake within my tomb ; and tears 
Fall from thine eyes. Then flowers spring 
About me, and my rest is deep. 



35 



ON HER PHOTOGRAPH. 

" If those dear lips conld speak !" So do I grieve, 

Looking upon the shadow which she cast, 

While she stood smiling in the sun. 

But they are silent ; and the eyes meet not 

My questioning. They look beyond me— sad, 

As if they saw a world of loneliness 

Beyond the Dreams of Girlhood. Does she see 

How Love shall fail, and she alone with Death ? 

She looks away from me, and has no word. 

Although I cling to her with eyes that shoiiM 

Withdraw her Soul from silence. 

I forget 
This is her shadow ; and can never tell . 
That she has passed the Gate of Dreams, 
And Death is not a Solitude. 



36 



JANIE. 

Here is her little chair. vSometimes 

I see her sunny figure, as she sat 

With Book of fairy-tales-or doll ; 

Her baby-cheek all flushed, while near 

I read my Shakspeare, or hemmed slow 

A ruffle — often for the doll. 

It is a vision only. She 

Is dead ; and I am here alone. 

I have her jewel-box. It holds 

The rings and chains she w^ore in days 

Of Youth Triumphant. I can see 

Her shining beauty rise again, 

When I look on these jewels. Eyes 

Like starry night — her fleeting smile — 

The loveliest mouth in the world — 

It is her own sweet face I see. 

But always 'tis a vision ; for 

My child is dead. 

This tress of dark 
Gold hair was once a part of her, 
And now remains an atom here 



Z7 

That was Essential to Being ? 
It cannot be. vSo all the rare 
And ever-changing loveliness 
Which met my mortal eyes was then 
A passing vision. 

When I say 
She died, I only mean her soul 
Withdrew, and so the Vision sunk 
Away from sight. And I look out 
With tears upon the empty world. 
Dear Janie ! Come again to me ! 
Return, although the fairy tales 
Are ended, and the gems you wore 
Are laid aside. Come as you are, 
Changed to my sense ; robbed of the power 
Of Beauty Incarnate. Souls must wear 
Fair shapes invisible ; and I 
Will know, although I cannot see, 
You are as beautiful as when 
The Vision of your Youth illumed 
My troubled years. Come, even though 
I faint amid the silence. Death 
Abides with me until you come 
Attain. 



3^ 



APRIL, 1892. 

It was the Easter morning ; and she looked 

On roses in their beauty. But she turned 

Her eyes away and vsaid : " Bring no more flowers." 

For suddenly the glow and scent were gone 

From roses and from life. We do not know, 

But struggling in her breast there must have been 

A premonition of the end ; for this 

Was her farewell. And though we stood with hearts 

Hopeful, waiting to lavish flowers on her, 

The evening fell, and she was far away 

Beyond the sound of voices calling. Yet 

They knew it not ! Still foolishly they said, 

"To-morrow she will smile !" 

But the next day 
They heaped the roses on her desert grave. 



39 



TO AN UNANSWERING GOD. 

Where is my little girl ? 

She went away 
One evening in the purple gloom that fades 
After the sunset. Then a star came out 
And sparkled in the dusk ; but she returned 
No more. I called her in the spaces dark 
Where Daylight vanishes ; and on the Sea 
I followed the faint mists that fled from shore 
To shore. Yet still I clasp her not. I only see 
The shining star that was not there before. 
I come to you — God whom I worshiped — whom 
I fain would love. Tell me : Where is my girl ? 
If you have taken her, and think to buy 
Consent by the creation of a v.'orld, 
You do not know the way to win a soul. 



40 



AN ANSWER. 

In heaven's happ}' sunshine she may be 

Singing in a celestial company ; 

But yet, her voice will break with tears, I know, 

When she remembers I am here below. 

About her there may lovers be always. 

Her beauty and her innocence to praise ; 

Yet she will miss the words her mother said, 

With tender kisses on her dear one's head. 

In lovely gardens she may walk ; the air 

Of Paradise play in her golden hair, 

Sweeter than any earthly breeze that blows. 

Her feet may crush the lily and the rose ; 

Yet she will long to come to me. who wait 

In the dark Valley— when the stars are late. 



41 



THE SOUL'vS JOURNEY. 

Back to our Venice, where the green tide flows 

And ebbs all day and night, my Spirit goes. 

The tall towers lean against the sky, and seem 

To look in the dark sea, whose changing gleam 

Is shot with color from the red and gold 

Of the great sails. They cluster, as of old. 

Along the quays and bridges ; still 

They fringe the gardens and old walls. At wil 

They rest against the palaces ; and find 

At the church door a shelter from the wind. 

Again I float upon the great lagoon 

At evening's quiet hour. And when the moon 

In melancholy splendor rises low 

Above the sands of Lido, then we row 

Over the purple water, where the rose 

Of sunset still gleams red. The current flows 

Against our boat with murmuring sound 

That might be sirens' whispers. All around 

The air is sweet with flowers, and sea-scent 



42 

The dusky wings of Africa have lent 
The twilight. Or at morning's hour I go 
To the far Islands, whose old towers below 
In the blue sea reflected, sadly tell 
Their story of forgotten pride. 

Ah, well ! 
Let them drop crumbling in the lapsing tide. 
My eyes are dim, I cannot see how wide 
The splendor of the morning reaches here. 
Each sparkle on the Sea is but a tear. 
At morning or at evening, 'tis the same. 
The sea and sky of Venice bear her name, 
Writ all in tears. 

May be the Tuscan hills 
Ring not so with sweet music— that which kills 
Me with its Sorrow. I will see again 
From high Fiesole, in the dark plain, 
Tne shining Arno. All the olive trees 
Are laden with pink blossoms ; and the breeze 
Blows over gardens full of lilies. Here 
I came with Her ; and I can see her — clear 
The Vision — in her straw hat trimmed with flowers, 
Coming up from Florence. 

Those happy hours 



43 

Forever fled ! Ah, no ; 1 cannot stay- 
By Arno's waters. Let me go away ; 
And where old walls of Rome repeat a great 
O'erwhelming history, I may find rest 
From memories that pierce my anguished breast. 
But roses nod across the broken walls ; 
On the long grasses, gentle sunlight falls; 
And I have found a broken statue, where 
She leaned her head, with its rich golden hair. 
The broken arches and the stately pines 
Are full of Voices ; while the rich light shines 
On its great tombs, and the far violet hills. 
Always the free air wanders where it wills ; 
So with it I will go. All Italy 
Is full of Sorrow. I \wi\\ cross the sea, 
And breathe the desert air. 

In this Dark Land 
The skies are hidden by the whirling sand 
Arisen from Sahara's barren rocks. 
I cannot breathe. In my entangled locks 
The winds of Hell seem blowing. 

Murder stalks 
By day in Egypt ; and at night there walks 
Horror unseen ; I would not see her /wre. 



44 

Why bring me to the Pyramids and show 

Me how the Sphinx has dwindled ? I might go 

And ask my question. But my heart beats thick 

And slow ; my shivering Soul is faint and sick 

With terror. Let me leave the land of Death 

And Crime ; and feel again the cooling breath 

Of the wide Ocean. Its expanse vShall be 

The symbol of my Immortality. 

No more on Earth m}^ Spirit goes in quest 

Of Life. The Sea shall give me rest. 



45 



DEATHS MYSTERY. 

All Italy was but a tomb ; 

The olive trees being past their bloom, 

We came so late. And everywhere 

A secret horror brooded. Fair 

And beautiful our Island slept 

In the blue sea. And some one wept. 

I was not mad ; but in my Soul 

A mad, bewildered image stole. 

It was myself, in that Dark Land, 

Where graves are dug in drifting sand, 

Calling aloud for Her whose smile 

Haunts the old Palace on the Nile. 



But where is she ? The Earth no more 
Holds her dear body. O'er and o'er 
I asked in Italy. A bird 
Sang in the orange groves, and heard 



46 

My voice. He grieved with me all day. 
At night, the sea moaned loud alway. 
But still, no answer. Then I knew 
Nature had lost my Dear One, too. 
They said Death held her ; and my fears 
It might be true had dried my tears, 
And driven my soul to frenzy. Then 
I sought in all ways known to men 
For her. But everywhere the Dark 
Was round about me. 

Vanished spark 
Of Life, that shone but yesterday, 
And seemed immortal ! Where away 
Hast flown ? The universe is gloom. 
I lie in the thick shadow of a Tomb. 
Infinite Silence broods above 
My anguish. If great God is Love, 
Where is He ? She would be with Him. 
That may be. But my eyes are dim 
With tears. And in my sober hours 
I know the God who kills the flowers 
Must be a cruel God. Not He 
Can rule us. Better far that she 
Were really dead beneath the sod. 



47 

I thank the heavens, there is no God ! — ■ 
***** 

Each day rose darker than the last ; 

Each night fell blacker. And so passed 

My Life in Italy. And then 

A breath came from the great Unseen 

Wafting me far to other lands. 

But whether amid Desert sands 

Or blossoming fields ; always there came 

On every wind my Darling's name, 

Echoed from the remotest space 

When I had called her ; and her face 

Swam ever on my vision. Tears 

Fell always ; so that I was blind 

To outward forms. My broken heart 

Held only memories. Apart 

From her, I lived no more. A pain 

Forever pierced Life through, again 

And yet again ; as in that Hour 

Supreme, when I had felt the power 

Of madness. Yet I never ceased 

To call on her. Despair increased 

The strength of Will, that carried me 



48 

Through gulfs of Darkness. And a sea 
Was roaring round me ; so I heard 
Its mighty thunders. Then came word 
That she was found. A silver Voice 
Re-echoed it. 

Let hearts rejoice 
On hear say evidence : But I 
Would only hold my hands and cry : 
" Give me the clew ! Even if it lead 
Through the dark grave and Hell, the speed 
Of Light shall seem too slow for me I" 



What angel in an ecstasy 
Found that fine thread which she had spun 
When she was rapt away ? 



The Hours run 
In golden circles. Day and night 
Are one to me. Both flow in light, 
I hold the chain that binds her fast 
To Life. She did not die. She passed 
A little space away from me, 



49 

But now has come again. I see 
Her, and I hear her voice. She gives 

The lie to tales of Death. She lives. 



She says, God does not kill the flowers. 
They wither in the noon-day hours 
When the great sun is fierce. Then He 
Takes their sweet breath. 

And so, I see 
How flowers die. But yet, I know 
Not why the sun should fade them so. 



50 



RESIGNATION. 

Too far have I been wandering. My feet 
Have trod the desert ; and the seas I crossed. 
Athirst I have been, and none gave me drink 
Weary, and never found the rest I sought. 
So now I will return. There is a door 
Stands always open. Let me go, and find 
If still within there is a chamber left 
For me. It need not be hung all in silk 
And perfumed ; for no princely guest am I. 
A lowly bed will then suffice. There would 
I yield my spirit up to Death ; and hear 
The voices of the early morning call 
Across the cool and dusky fields. The rest 
He gives to his Beloved shall be mine. 



51 



CALLING ON DEATH. 

I follow Death with no uncertain step ; 

I know the way he went, and nearer draw 

To him. He bears no cruel dart ; but balm 

For my deep wounds. No more my tears shall fall ; 

For he will lead me from Life's lonely maze, 

Where wavering shadows weave their snares, 

To the fair company of blessed ones. 

Turn back, oh Death ! and meet me, ere I faint 

In the grim darkness of the tangled world. 

I am without support, for Love has gone 

To thee. And in the Night's obscurity 

Despair may steal away my thoughts, and leave 

Me more than desolate. 

So turn, great Death, 
And take me from the perils of my state. 



52 



CLAIRVOYANTE. 

What lies across the border I can tell ; 

For I have seen without the light of sun 

Or star, the large, vague fields that lie beyond. 

Loved ones are there, though clothed in shrouding 

mist ; 
Sweet faces veiled, and beckoning hands that 

through 
The darkness glimmer, while I strain my eyes 
With longing. 

For I fain would go and be 
With them who have gone from me. Never have 
They need of sun or moon. They know the ways 
Of Life and Death, and walk therein between 
The Earth and Heaven. And in their Dark, among 
The shining worlds, always I see, and hear 
Sometimes the Voices calling low to them 
Who hear not. But the Dead are there. 



53 



ANGUISH. 

Celestial wisdom says : " Call not on Death ; 
But for a space endure the fear of ills 
Unknown, and darkness. 

I will bring a light 
Setting the snares at naught. Forth shalt thou go 
From this deep labyrinth. In meadows fair, 
Where rich flowers bloom in living colors, there 
Shall Blessed Ones come to thee, while Death finds 
In distant fields his harvest ripe." 

I cannot 
Heed the voice of Wisdom. Always I go 
Calling blindly still on Death. For Love with him 
Has gone. And though the Blest await me, where 
Life's flowers bloom fair — I would go where Love 

went, 
Borne on Death's bosom to the skies. 



54 



DEATH FOUND. 

Within the lonely wood I found 
No myrtles ; but the hemlock grew 
With fragrant boughs ; so to my door 
I brought its boding shade. Now, when 
The Day with sky of flame has passed, 
I may distill a cup, and drink 
With Socrates — calling on Death. 
And he who waits my voice will come, 
And I shall drink no more. My Soul, 
Going out to him, shall know not thirst 
Nor pain. 

Descend, cool Night, and bring 
Thy stars. Although the myrtle blooms 
In other gardens, here with Death 
I rest, beneath the hemlock tree. 



55 



MADNESS. 

His Soul has fled. The Essence delicate 

Of Mind and Being-— that which made 

Him dear to us— has gone to mingle with 

The evening mists that float about the world. 

What here remains is but an empty vase, 

That holds not even the fragrance of a thought. 

So let us bury him, with sound of harps 

And horns ; for he was skilled in music. Once 

He was a harper to the King, and sat 

Among great men. 

We will not look again 
On him. The light has left his countenance ; 
He cannot stir an eyelid ; and his mouth 
Is dumb. Put on him seemly robes ; and let 
His narrow house be built. 



56 



DEATH WAITS. 



The world a moment pauses. Shock 
And stir of Life's achievement hushed ; 
And Thought bowed down in silence. Then 
The Soul is heard, and the low voice — 
Drowned all the day in seas of sound — 
Communes with Heaven. 

The Sun, obscured 
By beaten dust of worn highways, 
Gleams in that moment on the hills ; 
And in the depths of silent streams 
The stars are seen. 

Then the World moves : 
And silently the Soul withdraws 
From the thick turmoil. She awaits 
Beyond the bounds of Time, till Death 
Shall touch again the world with peace. 



57 



Who may repeat what he has heard 
In that still hour ? The Lily's breath 
Is not more delicate, when Night 
Enwraps her beauty. He who knows 
The secret of the flowers would 
In vain attempt betrayal. So 
The word that steals from Soul to Soul 
May not be uttered. 

Death has brought 
The story of Immortal Love 
For Life's enchantment. Only he 
Whose lips are touched with heavenly fire 
Can tell it to a World. But still 
The heart may hold her treasure, safe 
As the rich perfume in the flower. 

III. 

He who would save his soul from Death 
Shall lose his crown of life. For Death 
Gives the reward. 

Await him not 
With fear ; but go in that dim path 
Where thou shalt come upon him. There 



58 

He sits among- the flowers, and holds 

His festival with Nature. He 

Will w^elcome thee ; and songs of swans 

Mingling with passing breath of rose 

And lily, shall enchant thy soul. 

So give thyself to Death. Think not 

Life has a garland for thee. Hope 

Clings always so to Life ; but Death 

Alone fulfills his promises. 

IV. 

Always Death waits for thee. He sees 

Thy coming from afar ; and counts 

Thy laggard steps. The richest flowers 

That nod along thy path, he set 

To watch thee, and remind thy soul 

Of him. The thorns that pierced thee were 

The thorns of Life. So why delay 

Thy progress ? Morn and Noon are gone 

And Evening darkens. Come to Death 

Before Night siezes thee. For then 

Thou shalt behold him dimly. So 

Thy Soul will shrink away from him, 

And thou shalt be the prey of fear ; 

And Death will miss thee in the dark. 



59 



DEATH THE CONSOLER. 

Above this busy little world 
There lies another, large and dim 
And silent. When I send a thought 
Into its vastness, sometimes I catch 
The echo of distant thunder. 
So vibrates my question — hazarded 
Where vision is lost. But answer 
There is none ; imless it happen, 
When the mad Day is stilled, and Night 
Stands quietly above his bier — 
The whisper running round the world, 
From Star to Cloud, and in the grass 
And tree, comes from that upper world 
And means but — " Peace." 



6o 



In lonely places coming- with Death 
From the great highway, where the din 
Of Life has bruised thy aching heart, 
Thou shalt be healed. Again thy brow 
Be lifted in the morning light ; 
And when the Evening comes, sweet sleep 
Kiss thy pale lids. For so Death gives 
To his Beloved rest and strength. 
Here shalt thou see the Dawn, beyond 
The circling woods, and Evening's glow 
On the still waters ; but the glare 
Of Noonday shall not beat on thee. 
Thou art within the silent House 
Whose walls were built foi thee. 



6i 



Within the vase the flowers that bloomed 

In winter, with their roots confined, 

Now it is summer would reach out 

And feel their mother Earth, where dews 

Shall nourish them ; and sun and shade, 

Alternate, give them color and strength. 

So we transplant them, and our house 

Is empty of their beauty. Yet 

We grieve not, for we know they live 

In a rich garden, where the weak 

Are given support ; and where they climb 

Among the fairest roses of the year, 

Second to none in loveliness. 

We shut the empty house and go. 



62 



SARGENT'S PICTURE. 

Like and unlike ; for then I was 

A shadow in Time's mirror. Now 

I stand in the great sunlight ; real 

And visible to the universe. 

Then, to myself I was a doubt, 

And none could know me. Now I am 

Revealed to self, and every soul 

Who comes within my sphere, can feel 

My truth and my reality. 

I am no more the questioner 

Of Death ; but eagerly I turn 

To Life, to solve my problem. Where 

I dwell Death has no secret. Life 

Is now the mystery. 



63 



SONNETS. 

Not in the twilight only would 

I dream with thee ; but in the hours 

Of morning, when the dew is bright 

Upon the roses ; and at noon 

When the warm sun is ripening 

The vineyards. These are hours I would 

Not pass alone. Whether in shade 

Of mountam pine, or by the brook 

That runs in sunny meadows, still 

We may together watch the sands 

Flow in Time's glass ; and if, perchance, 

It should be broken, and Time cease 

To count the moments, then would we 

Be conscious of Eternity. 



64 



The thunder rolling in the hills — 

The lightning's play — awake me not. 

In the deep vale I sleep secure. 

And there my soul has laid aside 

Her panoply, and rests without 

Defense. And wouldst thou waken her, 

War's dread alarum shalt thou raise. 

Rebellious angels must descend 

The ladder of the skies, and sound 

The clarion of defiance. 

But now we sleep. Yet there are dreams 

Which catch the breath, and stir the pulse, 

And, reaching out, my hand has grasped 

The idle lance, and found it broken. 



65 



Bruised am I, yet not broken. Life too hard 

Has pressed me. Death and Grief have wrung my 

heart, 
And Love has left me desolate. But in 
My Soul I hold Eternal Strength. It fails 
Not in the bitter years. With it I go 
Where I am led ; and find my way still winds 
Up the steep hill. Long have I left the vales 
Where flowers bloom and songs are heard. Alone 
Amid the clouds and sunless mists, beset 
By voices that remind me of my loss. 
With many wounds, within I still feel warm 
The flame of Being. 

Whereso'e'r T climb — 
Or if I fall — I know I am the same 
As when the world's foundations were deep laid. 



66 



The splendor of my Years is gone. 
Alone, in the gray light, I watch 
The vanishing shadows Time has left 
To me. 

Enchantment weaves her spell ; 
And in the gathering Dark return 
The golden days. They seem as real 
As life was. Yet they say the wand 
Of Poesy evokes them. They 
Are not of heavenly origin. 
But I have heard great Voices tuned 
To noble themes ; and sweet the air 
About them, as the musky breath 
Of Easter lilies, on the morn 
Their God has risen. 



67 



Wouldst call within thy royal tent 
The children of the Desert— soiled 
With Dust, and speaking in a tongue 
Uncouth ? 

They \v<.)uld but stare at thee, 
And mock the beauty of thy gems. 
And covetous hands might snatch away 
The trophies won in thy crusades. 
Their feet would staia thy golden threshold ; 
And poisoned breath of ditch and fen 
Usurp the place of soft perfumes. 
So let the silken curtain hang 
Untouched by common hands. Princes 
May lift it, and commune with thee. 



68 



Who am I that I pass my days 

In freedom, while the hapless ones 

Who throng the wayside wear a chain ? 

I am no princess. On my hand 

There is no signet ring of power ; my brow, 

Uncrowned by Beauty's wreath. 

Indeed, 1 am a Servitor, 

And on my breast there is a mark 

Set by the hand of Death, who claims 

My fealty. 

But whom Death chooses 
He protects from tyranny. So Life 
Holds me no more a slave. I am 
Unloosed from custom and from care, 
Alone I hold my Soul in peace. 



69 



The creatures of the dust, that come 
Sightless into the pleasant world 
Creep to the shelter of a leaf. 
Where the great sun cannot consume 
Them utterly. They know not when 
The Day has passed, and Night has come. 
Each Hour is Eternity 
Until some careless footstep treads 
Them back to nothingness. But while 
They lie in the sweet shadow, dreams 
May visit them, and Love may pass 
And scatter rose leaves over them, 
While yet they sleep. 



70 



Time has brought gifts to thee — not robbed 

Thy life of that which made it fair, 

As it ha.s done to me. Thou hast 

The dreamer's vision still — who sees 

The heavens peopled with ideals 

Discarded by the world. But I 

Have missed in Heaven what I would fain 

Possess. 

Time stole my Youth ; nor will 
The breath of Paradise restore 
Its bloom. Yet patiently I wait. 
One day thy gaze shall rest on me, 
And I shall seem a spirit fair 
And glorious with immortal Youth. 
So Time, at last, shall be my friend. 



71 



Time waits for angels. When he flies too fast 
They throw a golden net across his path, 
And he is caught. When him they have entrappecl, 
Sounding their harps, they fill his drowsy ear 
With music. So, entranced, he does not know 
He is a captive. Folded are his wings. 
The Hours who have attended him sit down 
Amid the harpings. Then all Heaven smiles 
That Time has been brought prisoner. 

But I, 
Who cannot rest, although sweet music sounds. 
Would break the golden net, and bid Time fly 
Again, on wide, swift wings. I love the Hours 
When they are speeding through the spaces vast. 
And bearing with them Thoughts and pleasant 
Dreams. 



7-2 



Not at the ever-frozen poles, 

Or the Equator's belt, would I 

Abide ; but in the happy zones 

Where Sun and Rain are friends ; and where 

The roses bud and bloom, and fade, 

And live again. 

Regions of change 
Invite my soul. The brooding thoughts 
Of melancholy fly before 
Life's joyous enterprise. So would 
I speed my sail on seas unknown, 
And go in search of great Ideals ; 
As Jason tracked the ancient shores, 
After the Golden Fleece. 



7Z 



EVENING IN PLEASANT VALLEY 

The moon swims in a silver sky 
Above the misty trees. A cloud 
Floats near, and for a moment hides 
Her disc. Then the loud whippowil 
Calls out ; and the dark river sounds 
A warning- to the traveler. 
There is no light, save here and there 
A tiny spark from household lamp 
Hid behind glooming elms. And now 
Beneath the shadowy porch we hear 
A mournful cricket chirp. Its mate 
Has been unkind ; and all alone 
It sits, complaining to the night. 
Poor, helpless insect ! Shall we bring 
Thee to our hearth-stone, there to sing- 
Thy note monotonous ? or shall 
We leave thee with thy kin ? The world 
Of lower life swarms with its sins 
And sympathies. Nearer to nature 
Must we have dwelt, to understand. 



74 

So leave the cricket in the grass. 
Where nightly dews and morning suns 
Will bring new friends. 

And now the cloud 
Has passed. The valley lies again 
Revealed in beauty. May has come. 



75 



DAY AND NIGHT. 



Down the long street we went in silence, while 
The faithful hound kept closely at our heels. 
Strange curs came barking. Little children play- 
ing 
Looked shyly on us. Here, no rattling carts 
Nor rolling carriages ; no sound of toil, 
Or flaunting pleasure filled the ways. Tall trees 
Stood guarding doors fast shut. No faces looked 
From windows on the thoroughfares. We saw 
The lake stretch darkly to the horizon 
Beyond the village. On its dark green breast 
No sails of ships, no birds flying over. So, 
We turned again, and towards the open gates 
Of our own Cit)', where we dwell always 
With heavenly visions — took our silent way. 



76 



II. 



With stately walls and towers guarding moat 

And drawbridge is our City built. Gray are 

Its palaces ; its gardens full of shade, 

Where many fountains flow always with sound 

And music. All night long the sentinels 

Walk slowly on the walls. They challenge those 

Who come belated. So we enter in 

At sunset from our wanderings. Then all 

The night we hear the chiming silver bells 

In towers. And watching from our palace roof 

We count the planets. 

Or in some dim room 
With lovely visions pass the fragant night. 
When morning comes, again we go beyond 
The city gates, and roam the desert world. 



n 



MY_ HOUSE OF DREAMS. 

A city in the clouds is not 
More unsubstantial than the house 
Wherein I dwell. Its walls are built 
Of dreams ; its roof is the blue ether, 
Thick with stars. And chan^iing- always, 
I am driven from court to chamber, 
Searching- a rcsting--place. Ever 
Beneath me melt the airy floors ; 
And I am plunged in space, unless 
1 cling to floating fragments from 
Dissolving dreams. 

What I have done 
Has not secured a stable dwelling. 
I built a House of Dreams — and now 
My House is falling. 

I would not dwell 
In my ancestral mansion, so 
I raised a fairy palace, where 



I went in company with One 
Who wandered from a distant star 
And found a home with me. Our days 
Were spent in dreaming ; and my House 
Grew ever strangely beautiful. 
Illumination from within 
Made it a beacon. vSuddenly, 
Dreaming was ended. 

Then we saw 
Our House in ruins ; and the stars 
The only steadfast light. And so 
The wanderer returned ; and left 
Me to Despair. 



79 



THE HAUNTED GARDEN. 

The house where I was born has fallen 
In ruins. But new walls have risen 
Beneath the Builder's hand ; and there 
I dwell. 

The fragrant roses, set 
In the old garden, are the same 
My childhood loved ; but my slim trees 
Have grown so thick they cast a shade 
Where once the sunshine painted gold 
On the white lilies. There I love 
To sit, where I can see my House 
Illumined by the dying sun. 
On plinth and column shines a light 
Emblazoning cold symmetry. 
And when descending Night enshrouds 
The lilies pale, and roses lose 
Their color, — to the great chamber, 
Where the lamps placed ready for the hour 



8o 



Of evening are illumed — I go. 
The lights are Thoughts held close in years 
My House was building. Dimly they burn 
Before the household gods ; but bright 
And clear they light the Book of Nature. 
There, I wait the stroke of midnight, 
When lights are out ! 



My narrow bed 
Receives the day's worn garment. I 
Go out again into the night. 
But though 1 fly to stars, and find 
The morning's splendor, yet it is 
My ancient garden where the Rose 
And Lily perfume the Dark, I love. 
So there I linger, while the Owl 
Calls out my Death. 



8i 



THE OLD HOUSE. 

It stood in shade. A lantern old 
Made visible the skeleton 
Of what had been a house, but now 
Was empty of its Soul. Within 
No more Affection lived, or Pride. 
Only were left poor, pallid ghosts 
Of Time that had been, and of Love 
Unfortunate ; except one room, 
And there a youth at midnight read 
Old tales and poetry, and felt 
Life still was in the house. He saw 
Brigiit figures moving in the room, 
And heard sweet voices. So the place 
Seemed all alive. But he was dead. 

In the old house there was a spot 
Secluded, where the Lady sat 
Who once had been possessed of all 
The old domain. Now she was robbed 



82 



Of all her titles, and was glad 

To sit in silence, counting hours 

That slowly chimed. Her casement looked 

Upon a faded garden, where no sound 

Broke the sad stillness ; save at night 

A cricket chirped beneath a tree, 

And made her company. So long 

Had she been shut in solitude, 

She had forgot her name, and thought 

Herself a Ghost of Early Days. 



S3 



LATE HAPPINESS. 

Who comes so late ? The world is dark, 
Lit dimly by the distant stars. 
Long- since the lih'es shut their lids 
In slumber, and the Vesper hymns 
Are dying- on the hills. Who comes 
With song and gleaming torch, to wake 
Me from my dreams ? 

She brings a train 
Of fairy sprites, all garlanded 
With roses, plucked in gardens fair. 
Beyond the twilight sea. Their harps 
Sound the sweet melodies they learned 
In the dark haunts of nightingales. 
I do not love this company 
Of joyous elves. Enough for me 
To take their Lady's hand and lead 
Her to my lonely chamber. There 
In silence would I dream with her. 
B it they who are her ministers 



84 

Will not away. They grasp her robe, 
And hold her in their midst, so I 
Must open my door to them. Enter ; 
But quench the flaming torch. Sound not 
The harp. Wind silently your way 
In the world's night. You may abide 
Till morn. But I must dream. vSo late 
Has happiness delayed. 

Then she 
Who loves not silence nor the dark, 
Pleads for the song and dancing torch. 
*' Long has thy soul been sad," she says, 
"Sitting with silent dreams. Awake, 
Even though the night has fallen. Thy house 
Make fit for me. Let flowers bloom, 
And music banish solitude. 
I cannot dream with thee. The night 
Is brief ; and when the morning comes, 
Freighted with heavy cares, I go." 
So I have opened wide my door, 
And all have entered in, with light 
And revelry. Fresh garlands glow ; 
New songs are sung ; and in the court 
A fountain flows, which yesterday 
Was choked with weeds. 



85 



THE ENCHANTER'vS HOUSE. 



We came to an old garden, where onr house 
Was set. Our chamber had the morning sun ; 
And from our window all the heavens were seen 
At night. This was our world. We were alone; 
For both were blind. With narrow vision. I 
Could only see what I might touch. So saw 
I her, and she became my world. But she, 
Alas ! had never looked on me. Strange as 
All else was in that house enohanted, this 
Was strangest : She could see what lay be5-ond 
The garden. In the world outside she was 
No longer blind. Yet she had come to live 
With me, in loneliness. 

II. 

For my sake she was there ; since she had loved 
The world of Sense. The Spirit forms, to her 



86 



Invisible, seemed cold and voiceless; yet 
With me a slender thread of consciousness 
Ran in the currents of her blood. She knew 
I was not other than I said : A soul of man 
Made free from earthly clay ; endowed 
With power and magnificence in realms 
Unknown to her. A little while, and she 
May go there. But the days are long- ; and since 
I cannot on the earth walk with her. she 
Has come to me, half way between the worlds. 
So here we live, enchanted each with each, 

III. 

Life is involved. For, far beyond the spheres 

Of darkened Earth, the wells of wisdom flow; 

Where I too long had drunk for happiness 

With Love, So when my blind enchanted one 

Is for an hour sad, I have no power 

To turn me from her sorrowing, and leave 

Her, as a mortal does. But I share all 

Her idle grieving. So I lose the charm 

Of sweet Contentment, till she smiles again. 

Then there are other days, when strange regret 

Assails me. The bright company with whom 



87 

I dwelt before I was enchanted, come 
In swift remembrance. 

So our lives 
In light and shadow, hasten to the end. 



IV. 



Within our house enchanted, we have power 

To touch the blinded lids of sorrow, so 

The light may shine again for those who mourn 

By empty graves. Together thus we may 

Make the world fairer. And our lonely house 

Shall bloom with flowers, brought by grateful 

hearts 
That we have eased. What matters it, if I 
Have missed the glories of my spirit-world, 
And she is shut away from earthly joy ? 
And in our chamber other flowers bloom. 
The air is sweet with them. For Poesy 
Has spread soft perfume tiiere ; and color rich. 
So our enchantment deepens. Life and Death 
Seem one to us. 



88 



THE PLACE OF DREAMS. 

There is a chamber where the sun 

Is powerless. Its windows look 

On mountain tops, and bending skies; 

While the cool breath from pines that grow 

In solitude, sweeps through its length. 

There do I go at noonday, when the flow 

Of the great Fountain drowses on 

My ear, and songs are hushed — the world 

Entranced by light. 

I w^ould not be 
The captive of the sun, and feel 
His power. So I, escaping, fly 
To my dream-chamber, where I feel 
Only the touch of cool, soft hands 
Invisible ) and heavenly winds. 



89 



MY LADY'S CHAMBER. 

A garden where the field- flowers bloom, 
And roses mingle sweet perfume 
With violet scents. This is her room. 

Where in the daylight Muses keep 
Their niche secure, and only sleep 
At night. And then her rest is deep. 

The Graces take their part, and pass 
A moment at her dusty glass. 
Welcome they are not — for, alas ! — 

The roses and the field-flowers bloom, 
For them whom long ago the tomb 
Shut in its strange and star-lit gloom. 

So all about them is the air 

Of Death ; and this an altar, where 

The memory of the Good and Fair 



90 

Has banished Vanity. Desire 

And Aspiration feed the fire 

That Beauty cannot kindle. Higher 

Than Thought can go, the living flame 
Ascends. And yet always the same, 
Whatever be its sacred name. 

And in her lonely chamber, born 

Of Love and Death, Hope smiles at morn 

— Nor is the twilight hour forlorn. 



91 



GOING WITH DEATH. 



Though I have said farewell to Life 
Yet still sometimes I weep. For Death 
Has hidden Love, and though I follow 
Him, I cannot find her. When the Dawn 
Approaches, then I think Love's smile 
Steals from the skies ; and at the hour 
Of falling Night, her shadowy veil 
Floats near me. But I never see 
Her face, or hear her voice. Yet oft 
Her sigh sobs on the wind. But where 
She dwells, I know not. Death, unkind, 
Has woven a web of mist above 
My vision. On a darkened path 
He leads me~still alone. 



92 



When I would follow Death, then Grief 
Fled from me. She was friend to Life, 
And they are old companions. Now 
I go alone ; but in my road 
Grow regal flowers, whose rich perfume 
Surrounds me like a flowing- sea 
In which my spirit bathes and finds 
New promises. Why death should lead 
Me among flowers, while Life always 
Cho.se for my path the desert w^here 
Rough stones pierced my tired feet, 
I may not know. Perhaps He knew 
Life had been tyrant, driving me. 
Unwilling, all my days. So He 
In pity brought me by this way. 



93 



III. 

Sometimes Life comes to tempt my Soul 
And draw me back from Death. Then I 
Remember Grief abides within 
The house of Life ; and I am sick 
Of tears, and idle moaning-. So 
I hold my hand to Death, pledging- 
Anew my all. With him I would 
Go down to Hell, or rise to Heaven. 
Either is better than the way 
Of Life. 

Too cruel is Life's bond ; 
For he would take away my liberty. 
My thoughts, and even my love 
Of Poesy ; and in return 
Give me my broken dreams ! 



94 



LONGING FOR DEATH. 

After Death's freedom Life seems hard — 

A slavery. No rest from Toil, 

No sweet release from care, save in 

Forgetfulness or sleep. Always 

To guard our treasure ; not one hour 

Of perfect happiness or peace. 

How different with Death ! With him 

I knew no care. Forebodings were 

Forgotten, and wrong unknovrn. Let me 

Go back again, and find his house 

New garnished. Let me look once more 

On roses witli no worm upon 

The leaf I Beloved one, come with me 

To that Paradise. 



95 



STARLIGHT AND THE MOON. 

A heaven of scintillating stars above 
Me spread, reflected in the changing sea, 
Invites my contemplation ; but I choose 
The shaded grove, where the fair moon alone 
Looks down through arching boughs. There have 

I dreamed, 
Bathed in her light serene, with Poesy. 
The bright stars tremble so, their light is like 
The fire-flies, — scattered all among the trees. 
Or dancing down in shallows of the pool ; 
Always in laughter or in tears ! Perhaps 
The golden moon was once a silver star, 
Sparkling and flashing in her course ; but now 
Her light serene has power to illume a world ; 
While the faint starlight dances in the sea. 



96 



HEAVENLY PROMISES. 

Think not, dark shadow, you shall always haunt 
The house where I have dwelt. I bring a torch 
That vshall be lit, when I have caught the spark 
Struck off in silent thunders in the great 
Immensities between the worlds. It shines 
Already in my firmament. And I 
Reach upward and draw down to me 
Its lightning. 

Come, thou blessed, ancient light 
Of Heavenly wisdom ! Touch me with thy flame 
While I stand waiting ; not in fear, but hope 
Exulting. So the shadow shall no more 
Find shelter. And entering, I shall not hreathe 
Again the heavy air of Death ; but scent 
Of roses will be everywhere ! 



97 



THE SILENT GUEST. 



In Araby the Blest — no need 
Soft perfumes to distill from flowers. 
The Valleys enfold a scented air, 
As the green calyx of a lily holds 
The blossom. So the dwellers there 
On heavenly odors nourished are ; 
Exhaling- sweetness as flowers do. 
Sometimes they journey in the West 
And mingle with the Caravan 
On desert sands. 

Fainting, they ask 
That perfumed waters may be brought 
And sprinkled in the dust. Then they 
Who march beside the Camels wonder 
What weakness this ma}' be. 



98 



II. 



Ill that far country, music sounds 
Always. The flowing waters, winds 
Tliat play on harps ^olian, all 
Great nature's voices touch the soul 
To harmony. 

So when thy guest 
Who comes to thee across the waste 
Of wide Sahara, and the seas. 
Sits silent in thy tent, bring him 
Thy simplest pipe, and it will wake 
His memory, and call him back 
From dreams. 

Then can he speak, and tell 
What thou wouldst know : whence he has come 
And what his errand. 



99 



AT DEATHS DOOR. 

The Door was open, and a gentle voice 

Said " Enter. Here all saddened hearts rejoice." 

So without fear I entered ; as one goes 

To a great festival, where the red rose 

Crowns the deep wine-cup. and the feast is spread 

To royal guests. On my long-sorrowing head 

Fell the baptism of joy ; — the welcome blest 

Of those who in the gilded chambers rest, 

After the Day is ended. Music sweet 

Stole to me. Then, about my weary feet 

The golden meshes of a Dream were cast. 

***** 

So stand I on the threshold ; there held fast, 
In deep enchantment. In the distance gleam 
The robes of that fair company, who seem 
Awaiting me. Yet never can I go 
Beyond the door. The dying ebb and flow 
Of Melody and Light about me stream ; 
But I am still entangled in my dream. 



lOO 



DEATH'S MESSENGER. 



I have a Spirit in my house, 

Whom Fortune blindly sent. I prayed 

For Wisdom ; but his name, instead, 

Is Folly. All day long he weaves 

A web of sunbeams ; and I sit 

Rapt by its splendor, while the Hours 

Move noiselessly. But when Night comes, 

Then faded falls poor Folly's dream. 

Among the twilight shadows. So 

I sigh with Folly, till the morn 

Brings back the sun. Then we begin 

Again our Day's delight— the Spirit 

Weaving dreams, and I entranced. 

But wisdom comes at Evening's hour ; 



lOI 



So then forgot are Folly's dreams. 
I weep alone, thinking on Death, 
Whom I have called in vain. I have 
Been told how kind he is, bringing 
Forgetfulness to pain, and curing- 
Sorrow. '' Oh, would that Death were here 
I cry. — 

Then soft the answer steals 
Through the still dusk : '• Within thy house, 
Thou hast Death's messenger. He weaves 
Thy winding sheet. His web of Dreams 
That vanishes at night, is changed 
By nature's forces to thy shroud. 
Thou wearest it unknowing. Even Folly 
Weeps when he sees thy smile." 



I02 



THE PALACE OF DEATH. 



A magic wand has raised the walls 

Of my great palace. Chambers dim 

And vacant wait my plenishing. 

In them I dwell, untouched by Care, 

While through the echoing galleries 

Resound the Voices of the Dead. 

When Morning comes, sweet Melody 

Enters with heavenly airs. I go 

From room to room, with Thoughts serene. 

And at the twilight hour I come 

Where the great fountain plays, and hear 

The music of the feast. But yet 

I am always alone, within 

My Palace Invisible, 



lo- 



ll. 

Sometimes I hear a Voice that turns 

My Thoughts away ; and holds my Soul 

In solitude, with One who stands 

Invisible beside me. Then 

I know what magic built the walls 

For my defense ; whose strength keeps me 

Secure, although the darker Powers 

Gather about. 

And he who holds 
My palace 'gainst all enemies, 
Has called the lightning to subserve 
My need. Not earthly elements 
Alone are ministers, who bring 
Celestial forces ; for they come 
On the winged thunderbolt. 



104 



in. 

What have I given to him who built 

A palace for my days, — who keeps 

At bay the encroaching world, — and brings 

To mortal weakness heaven's strength ? 

Only a sorrowful heart. For that 

Is now my only treasure. All 

I had was lost in shipwreck, when 

The Years, with their fair Argosy, 

Were nearing a pleasant shore. The sea 

Rose in swift anger, and swept away 

My world. So was my naked soul 

Left, shrieking to the Universe. 

Only a broken heart remains ; 

But it may be enough. 



I05 



IV. 

Once, in my Early Youth, I heard 

Low songs sung in the hour of dreams, 

By unseen voices. When awake, 

I sang them, over and over, 

Not knowing their meaning. They were 

No childish rhymes. Then I forgot 

The trick of singing. 

Now, that I 
Have given my heart to Him, again 
The heavenly Voices sing. Always 
I hear them ; and my throat is full 
Of music. When I utter it, 
I hear the notes of long ago, 
Distinct and clear ; but now I know 
It is the Song of Death. 



io6 



HER RETREAT. 



Here shall no intruding Thought betray 

The Soul, communing with the Unseen. 

All sounds of outer Life shall come 

In softened echoes. At morn, the songs 

Of birds ; at the still noon, the wings 

Of butterflies ; and at the eve 

The sighing wind : these only shall 

Invade the heavenly silences. 

Rare flowers, that bloom onl)' where 

The Soul is dedicate to Death, 

Shed their exquisite fragrance here. 

They have been brought by loving hands 

To One who dwells in Solitude 

And Twilight ; and she finds them blest. 



i07 



11. 



But when the broadened light of Day 

Shall shine upon their beauty, then 

Imperishable will they glow, 

Though she for whom they bloom is passed 

Beyond the narrow gate, among 

The roses of Paradise. 

Not flowers 
Alone make sweet the air ; for here 
A fountain flows. Learning hath built it ; 
Its w^aters, poured from golden lips, 
Fall flashing down into the silver 
Pool. Wisdom will offer thee to drink, 
And if thou art athirst, thankfully 
Receive. But if thou hast no need, 
Pass on, nor trouble the clear deeps. 



io8 



III. 

She who holds possession here, Lady 
Of Flowers and Fountain, cannot see. 
Only her Servant tells her who 
Is come ; and who is w^elcome. Not 
Always wise are they who come. They 
Bring confusion to the blinded 
Eyes of Love ; and listening to their tale, 
She knows not whether Heaven be fair 
Or dark ; whether celestial suns 
Illume the spaces ; or the stars 
Beam softly between clouds, so vague 
Their speech. So let them not reply 
To her sad questioning. vSorrow 
And Loneliness have been so long 



109 



IV. 



Immured with her, that she has lost 

The memory of joy ; but spirits serene, 

Religion and Philosphy, 

Are welcome here. 

For her defense 

There is a shield, and its reverse 

Is flame. Touch it with thy bold spear, 

And thou shalt know its art. No power 

On Earth can beat it down. 

When she 
Shall close her door, not one can enter : 
For her g-reat flaming shield warns him 
Inopportune, who comes at night. 
Who passes at the Early Dawn 
Is made afraid. In broad day, only, 
The Guest may knock. 



no 



CONSOLATION. 



Now cease thy sobbing-. Life is done ; 
And only Death is here. Compose 
Thyself ; and strew white roses where 
The grave is made. 

I would not grieve 
For what is past. Let bygones be ; 
But never again invoke the power 
Of Madness. 

The o'erwrought brain and heart, 
To suffocation prest, have failed beneath 
The stress of Grief. How well it is 
That Death is here. Better to be 
With him, than suffer Life's long pain. 
So bring sweet flowers to fill the place 
Where fortunate Death has come, 
With rich oerfumes. 



Ill 



11 



Not even a faded flower decks 

Thy Life. So let it pass ;— forgotten, 

As rainy nights upon the sea 

No longer sadden us on shore. 

The lily's fragrance, and the rose 

That dies for thee, — affection's gift — 

Are all thou hast in memory. 

Of days to Sorrow given. When they 

Are gone, forget thy tears, and Love 

Shall bring thee flowers : roses fresh, 

And lilies plucked in gardens fair ; 

Where Constancy has watered them 

With heavenly dews. Their morning blush 

And sunset gold are fadeless. 



112 



HI 

He who would be Lord of thy life 

Must give with bounteous hand. Thou hast 

A pahice for thy dwelling. There 

Thou shalt have many guests ; and they 

Should drink red wine, feasting on fruits 

Ambrosial. Through the wide doors should pass 

Thy train with music ; and great lights 

Burn their red torches till the morn. 

Thou hast done well to come with him 

Who gives thee all his treasure. Now, 

Thou shalt not lack for ministers 

To do thy will. And Poetry 

Will bring fresh garlands to adorn 

Thy crystal walls. 



113 



THRENODY. 



When thou hast called on Death, he was 

Already with thee. All the night 

He followed in thy steps, and seemed 

To tliee a shadow only. When 

The morning came, he held the cup 

For thee to drink. Looking on him, 

Thou didst refuse ; for he was fair, 

As the fair gods in thy old temples, 

" Tempt not my Soul," then didst thou cry. 

" I must not drink the cup of Love !" 

Then Death his mantle drew about 

Him ; while thy Soul, unknowing, shrank 

Away.— Never hast thou known Death, 

Even though he followed thee. 



114 



II. 

Since thou hast taken Death for Love, 
And turned away thine eyes, then look 
On him who takes away the cup, 
And turns thy flowers to dust. He is 
Thy earth-born deity ; and goes 
Beside thee in the sad turmoil 
That is thy world. And he is Love, 
Who makes his spoil of thee. He drinks 
Thy wine ; and leaves thee to kind Death 
Let not bewilderment seize on 
Thy soul. For many take Love's name ; 
And Death is Love Divine who holds 
Thee to him. Thou hast called on him, 
Not knowing he was Love, 



115 



III. 

If thon wouldst choose betwixt True Love 
And Death, thy Soul already hath 
Made choice. 

Love always was with thee. 
Always thy Soul went out in search 
Of Death. Now she has found him, rest 
Thou also with thy Soul in peace. 
Let earthly True Love go. Return 
To dust : and in the secret house 
Where Immortality is born, 
Thou Shalt find Life again with Death. 
Long has he followed thee. Long hast 
Thou called on him. So let him lead 
Thee from the world ; while thy True Love 
Sleeps, drunken with the wine of Life. 



ii6 



RETURNED. 



In the wild night I come 
Upon the winged steeds, 
Who bear the ancient names 
Eolus and Auster. 
Open the portals wide, 
Again would I enter 
Into thy chamber. Once 
I was visibly 
Lord of all. Now am I 
Only the ghost of him. 
Now am I suitor, where 
Then I was dominant. 
Now must I ask of Life 
That which I forfeited, 
Leaguing myself with Death. 
Let me once more draw near, 
Let me rest once again 
On thy kind bosom. I 
Am thy risen Lord, 
Not his pale image. 



117 



II. 



Enter, thou might}^ one ! 

Still art thou Lord of Life. 

Eolus and Auster 

Bring thee from Paradise, 

Where thou hast dwelt among 

Roses and lilies. Sv/eet 

Is th}^ kiss as the breath 

Of the Zephyr that floats 

In the gardens at Dawn. 

Wide open the portal ; 

And fair is the chamber. 

Invisible art thou 

To them who would mock thee, 

Conquered by Death. 

Enter, 

And rest thee. No image 

Art thou to my fealty ; 

But brighter thy Presence 

Than when thou wast vested 

In raiment of Flesh. 



ii8 



CYTHEREA. 

Beyond the murk of night there shines 

A star. The sea reflects her beams ; 

And I, who turn my face frcm Heaven, 

Can see her in the deep. Although 

She is not Venus' self— so like 

Is she, that I am lost in dreams 

Of deep-sea wonders. I forget 

The tales of sirens who betray, 

And the wrecked treasure lying there. 

But far below the coral reef. 

Where rainbow-shells and flowers of the sea 

Adorn her grotto— there, I think, 

Sweet Cytherea sleeps among 

The emerald shadows. 



Ilq 



THE TRESPASS. 

Wandering in thickest dark, I lost 

My way ; so entered at a door 

That opened in a garden wall. 

Then in the midst of lilies fair 

And roses— by their perfume sweet 

I knew them in the dark— I found 

My footsteps straying far 

Along the winding walks of this 

Strange garden. Then I thought to pluck 

The fragrant flowers as I went. 

So was 1 laden with my spoil. 

But when I would return, the path 

Was hid in darkness ; and the door 

Lost in the shadows. So I stood 

Afraid to call, lest one should come 

To chide me for my theft. And now 

The lilies I had gathered drooped ; 

The rich, dark roses had no scent ; 

And scid reflections held my Soul, 



I 20 

All the night long-. When Dawn revealed 

The narrow pathway, and the door 

Where I had entered in — lo ! there 

The Gardener stood. Cold words were none. 

Smiling, he said, this was my own 

Domain ; an old inheritance 

Long time un visited. Then shame 

Assailed me, that I had been found 

A robber, dumb with fear, when night 

Held me enchanted in my garden dim. 



iU 



THE WINDS. 



When down the Valley the great Winds 

Come with their lordly step, the trees 

Sway with the sound of rolling seas ; 

But the soft notes of birds still come 

From their green depths. They sing the songs 

Of mating and nest-building ; though 

The grand Orchestra of the sky 

Drowns the small hum of insect life. 

In the dark pines the Winds have found 

The stateliest harps on which to play 

Their diapason. But across 

The stream, in the long grass above 

The graves, they go in silence. There 

They sweep away the dews of night. 



122 



II. 

About the Church they gather — hushed 

To hear the Voice of God ! They would 

Be reverent. But spoken words 

Are not the spirits' language. God 

Speaks through the winds, and they must know, 

And so when in the Church I hear 

Their voices rising, as they call 

Me to the hills, where God has built 

His temple — I go out beyond 

The drowsy portal ; far above 

The sleeping Valley and the songs 

Of nesting birds ; where Eagles float 

On quiet wings — upborne by Winds 

Where they would fly. 



123 



ECHO. 



The one I know lives in a Valley where 

I sometimes go when I am tired of hills. 

And there together we make merry, while 

The hushed stream listens in the rocks. He calls 

Across the fields ; and little children hear 

Him in their play ; and ask each other why 

Spirits invisible mock them always, 

When they would hear the Nightingales at noon. 

Then my dear Echo cries : 

"The Nightingales 
At noon !" And silvery laughter bursts from 

hedge 
And tree, as if the birds mocked Echo ; when 
They really are sleeping in the wood. 
So all day long we make the Valley ring- 
With jest andmusic. Then I seek the hills. 

II. 
In the recesses of the hills I live 
With a sad spirit, who is grieved 



124 

When I have been with Echo in the Vale. 

vShe loves not idle merriment. She breathes 

The finer air above the mingled sounds 

That clash below. And when I come at night 

Back to her wise reproofs, I am ashamed 

That I have wasted all my hours with one 

Who has no Soul. For Echo has an empty mind 

Bereft of reason. He will but repeat 

Words that he cannot understand, so when 

I catch his trick of speech, and laugh with him, 

I seem a Madman and a Fool to her 

Who loves the sober and the wise. 

III. 
Would that I might my foolish Echo bring 
From his low-lying Valley. In the hills 
A Soul might be imparted to him. Here 
He might dwell among the crags that hang 
Above the thundering waterfall. And when 
The eagles cry he can repeat their note. 
So would he soon forget the voice of mirth. 
Great Nature's lessons in the hills are full 
Of solemn teachings. They who hear, although 
They have been crazed by folly, cannot long 
Withstand them. They are heard by night and day ; 



12 



Even in the silence. So let Echo come, 
And live with mighty Spirits who abide 
In the fastnesses of the ancient rocks. 

IV. 

The sportive Echo of the Valley came 

To dwell with me upon the mountain-top, 

Where I had found a cavern in the rocks 

For him. " Here," said 1, '^ shall be Echo's homo. 

To him the barren pines will whisper. He 

Will answer back as gently. When the voice 

Of the great waterfall shall reach him, he 

Will give, in awful tones, the very sound 

Of falling thunder. We shall hear no more 

The tinkling laughter of his native brooks. 

A fit companion will he be for hours 

Of meditation." But when Echo heard the sweep 

Of wintry storms in the ravine, he fled 

Back to his Valley ; where he mocks me still. 

v. 
Although I am no longer playfellow 
To Echo, yet I sometimes wander near 
His shaded haunts beside the running brook, 
And there I hear him answering the call 
Of solitary birds, who seek their nests 



126 

Among the trees. His voice delusive seems 
The note of nightingale or wren ; so they 
Wbo hear him think the one beloved returns 
From weary wanderings in the sky ; or brings 
News from the field and groves that lie beyond. 
Then they wait happy in their nests, and give 
To Echo sounds of Joy which he repeats. 
So all the Valley rings with songs of birds 
And Echo answering, finer than them all. 

VI. '■ 

When I would chide his sad deceit, he tells 
Me I have lived too long among the clouds. 
I do not know the sadness of the Vale 
When he is gone. Abandoned Nightingales 
Call vainly. Fearful, then they hide away 
And sing no more. The Brook has not the Voice 
Of the great Waterfall ; but softly sings 
Upon its way ; and Echo takes delight 
In its low syllables. So in the trees 
He whispers the Brook's song ; and lovely nymph: 
Dance to its measured rhythm. 

When silent he, 
Sadly the Brook moves on. The woodland dance 
No more weaves in and out the golden mist 
Upon the flower-strewn bank. 



127 



MAY. 



The changing season brings 
New hopes. The robin sings 
At morning ; and at eve 
The cuckoo calls. I leave 
My cares behind. I go 
From Winter's wind and snow 
With the young Spring. We find 
The great world fair and kind, 
With beauty everywhere. 
The flower-scented air, 
The tender sunlight, earth 
In misty green, give birth 
To joyous thoughts. We rise 
With them to April skies, 
And see the open gates 
Where sweet Perfection waits 
The lovely coming May ; 
She brings the full-robed Day 
Of Happiness. My Heart 
Goes out to her. Apart 
From Sorrow will I stray. 
In myrtle groves with May. 



128 



JUNE. 

The silence of the budding trees is changed 
To the soft murmur of the crowding leaves ; 
And from the Valley flies the Spring, o'ercome 
By Summer's flaunting host. 

The lilies fair 
Are withered ; pink arbutus gone ; the wealth 
Of bloom that clothed the orchard fallen to dust. 
But the sweet honeysuckle tempts the bee,. 
And early roses are in bud. The Vv^orld 
Is still a shrine for Beauty's worshipers, 
And Nature's incense rises to the skies. 
A deeper joy is in the wnld-bird's note, 
As all day long, in sunlight or in shade, 
He sings beside the noisy stream ; while soft 
And tenderly his mate calls from the nest. 



129 



She thinks her song has turned the thunderbolts 
From their dark ambush in the hills, whence they 
Descended on the Valley ; — and has brought 
The sun of June to light their nest. She thinks 
His voice evokes the tender worms to come 
Above the ground after the rain, for him 
To so provide the rest with food. 

Not like 
A mate I know, who leaves her nest to seek 
In high-walled gardens tempting fruits that blush 
And who has made a refuge from chance stroke 
Of lightning, in the crevice of a tomb. 
And when at morn or eve she hears the song 
Of her bright plumed lord, she only thinks 
He calls her to the shade. 



I30 



THE PROTECTING OAK. 



Deep in the forest grow dark ferns 

About the Oak. They hold the dews 

Of morning, though the Hours burn 

The crown of their protector. Winds 

That tear liis leaves and scatter them, 

Reach not the ferns. Only the airs 

That steal through friendly boughs, can touch 

Their beauty ; so they tremble not. 

Only a gentle waving stirs 

The golden butterfly who drinks 

The nectar kept for him. So thou 

Art sheltered from the elements. Thy life 

Is passed in shadow of the Oak 

Who towers in the Sun. 



Who thought the Oak was dead, saw not 

The tender buds beneath the snows ; 

Nor knew the Spring would touch with wand 



Enchanted the great rugged limbs 
Unfolding leaves — a miracle. 
Winter had taken the Old Year's robe, 
And on the naked boughs had hung 
His icicles. The birds had flown 
To distant palms ; and silence dwelt 
In the Oak-tree. 

But now it stirs 
With melody ; and sometimes downward 
Flutter strange scarlet wings that flash 
Their color in the shade. 



132 



THE OAK'S PLEA FOR VIOLETS. 



The scented Violets grow thick 
In the deep shadow of the Oak. 
The Sun has never blanched their hue, 
Nor stolen their perfume. The wide fields 
Are sown with daisies. Hearts of gold 
Have they ; but they are scentless. 
Transplant the Violets, — and they 
Will lose their charm, and will not be 
The rivals of the hardier flowers. 
Let them remain among the dews 
Protected by the tree. Gather 
The daisies for the children. Let 
Them weave their garlands. But leave 
The Violets for Poet's eyes. 



Beneath the Oak, the Violets 

Bloom late. The early Spring was cold ; 

And snows have lingered in the Vale ; 



So even the Oak put forth his leaves 
With caution. 

Now he is aglow 
With Life. The tempest shakes in vain 
His sturdy boughs. He will not lose 
One leaf upon the wind. The Sun 
Can never reach his roots. He stands 
Fixed in his place, where Nature placed 
The acorn— a centur}^ ago. 
But yesterday the violets 
Were brought by tender airs, and sown 
Under the grateful tree. 

III. 

They who would pluck the Violets 
Must come at early morn ; for then 
They are new-opened ; and they tell 
Sweet stories of the Dawn. Each day 
New blossoms look abroad ; and each 
Has its own tale. 

When Evening comes 
It is forgot. The flowers dream 
Among the leaves. Then the great Oak 
Protects them from malicious Elves, 



134 

Who haunt the wood at night ; sheltering 

The horned Owl, whose warning voice 

Bids the intruder fly. Think not 

To find for Violets a bank 

Where they can bloom secure, as here. 



135 



THE VOICE IN THE OAK. 

The great Oak budded in deep silence. When ^ 
The leaves unfolded, trembling in the air, 
Low whispers stole among them ; and a Voice, 
From distances unknown, spoke in the tree. 
" Who art thou ?" said the listening Forest. " We 
Would know what stranger, sheltered in the Oak, 
Tells fairy tales to wandering children." Then, 
" I am the stranger," said the Voice, " I dwelt 
Within the Oak in other days. I went 
Away in i\utumn, when the red leaves fell, 
And dreamed all winter in the southern palms. 
Now I have come again to live among 
My native trees. I love this friendly Oak. 
I murmur in his boughs what I have caught 
In foreign lands." 

Then said the Forest : " He 
May tell the truth. He is a Summer Wind 
That blows in every tree. But when he shakes 
The Oak, he stirs the leaves to whisper tales 
Of Fairy-land and Poetry." 



Ij^ 



SUNRISE. 

The morning breaks upon the world ; 
And from the Sea fair islands rise 
To sig-ht ; and the horizon burns 
Behind the looming ships, that come 
From distant shores. 

All night, we looked 
On darkness, thick with misty shapes, 
Which had no form. The glimmering torch 
Held by the Evening Star, sufficed 
To banish fear. But now the Dawn 
Has come, and we can see how safe 
Our anchorage, — the haven gained ; 
While far across the bar the waves 
Beat vainly. We have lain secure 
All night, beneath the friendly cliff. 



137 



IT. 



Outside, the robbers of the sea 

Have sailed into the dark. They passed 

Our bark, hid in the shadow ; so 

Were we preserved from perils unknown, 



Yet have we kept our silent watch 
With the brave Pilot at the helm, 
Who slept not — though he never called 
The Hours of the Night, and " All is well 
But had we known what Danger sailed 
The seas, while we were safe in shore, 
We had not kept aloof from him, 
Who watched the tides, and held us fast. 
But now the morn is here, we may 
With him go out upon the main. 



138 



A POET'S CHOICE. 

** Once in a Century the Aloe blooms, 

But every day new Roses greet the world. 

So why await the lingerintr beauty, since 

The sweetest flowers are ready to thy hand ?" 

" I know," the Poet said, " how beautiful 

And how profuse the Roses are ; but I 

Would choose a flower rare and wonderful 

So I will wait another hundred years." 

"But cans't thou live alone while Roses smile 

Around thee ? Their sweet scent must touch thy 

soul 
With thoughts of Love. So gather them, and dream 
In happiness until the Aloe blooms." 
" Ah, yes," the Poet sighed." But Death shall give 
The Aloe — in the hundred years !" 



LOVE UNATTENDED. 

In the great palace where Love dwells, 
She never is alone. With her 
A hundred handmaidens abide, 
To braid her garlands, and to crown 
With them her flowing hair. They bring 
Each day a new-made robe, that one 
Has broidered with white pearls, and one 
Has starred with golden flowers. So, Love 
Is always clad and garlanded 
With beauty. 

One dark Summer morn 
Love rose from her great ivory bed, 
And saw her chamber empty. None 
Were there to greet her, or to give 
Her robe and garland. Angry, then, 
She loudly called. No answer came. 
So in her haste, unclothed, she flew 
All naked as she slept, across 
The silent court where fountains played 
In the faint sunlight. So she ran 
To find her handmaidens. Bnt they 



140 

Had gone. Silent their chamber was, 
And empty. Withered garlands lay 
On the cold floor ; and jewels shone 
On the imfinished robe. Then Love 
Took in her royal hands the silk. 
About her shoulders white she wrapped 
The shining stuff. So now was she 
Covered ; and her fair limbs were hid. 
And even in such unshaped attire 
She was a queen. And when she sat 
Beside the fountain. One who came 
To beg a draught of her was glad 
To find great Love without the robe 
And wreath prescribed by Law 
Divine. 

But when another day 
Had come, her maidens all returned. 
Affrighted by a shadow, they 
Had spent the night in tears ; and morn 
Had found them pale and sad. So they 
Had fled from Love, who cannot look 
On pallid cheeks unmoved. But Love 
Forgave ; for she had entertained 
The stranger without ministers. 



141 



RESIGNATION. 

I cannot dwell beside the stream that flows 

From Paradise. It brings upon its breast 

The fallen leaves of roses, and faded stars 

Of blue forget-me-nots, that grew beyond 

The hills where I am banished. So I build 

My bower beside the quiet pool that lies 

Beneath the cypresses. There blooms a timid 

Weed, that lifts its flowers to my hand. Gathered, 

It is the solace of my days ; for once 

In heavenly fields it grew — my Love of Learning. 

Strange, that I should lament the blushing flowers 

That have no healing in their leaves ; that bloom 

And fade within a day. But so my Spirit 

Grew, nourished by magic charm of roses' breath. 



142 



n. 

When I had lost my place in Paradise, 

I missed the gardens, rather than the choirs 

Of angels. For within my bower I have 

A singing bird, whose notes, attuned to Love 

And Sorrow, suit the temper of my Soul. 



When I am called back into Heaven, I will 
Not let the roses fall ; nor perish the sweet 
Forget-me-nots. They shall be gathered in 
Their bloom, and fill the chamber of my Soul 
With beauty. I will sit embowered among 
Them ; and I may forget the weariness 
Of Learning. While I dwell among the cypresses, 
I always dream of Paradise. 



143 



LILIES AND ROSES. 



I have not asked the Stars what Fate 

Is mine. I would not know the hour 

Of Destiny. There is a hand 

That guides me ; and I cannot stray ^ 

Far from the narrow path that leads 

Away from worldly snares. Sometimes 

A wish to taste forbidden joys 

Draws me to wander in the fields, 

That border on my w^ay. I find 

Fair flowers, and gather them. They die 

And I, repentant, turn. My guide 

Awaits me, and his hands are full 

Of lilies. So my Soul ashamed. 

Receives the undeserved award. 



144 



II. 

Why should I sigh for roses, when 

The lilies are so beautiful ? 

Their gilded fairness fills my mind 

With peace. But still my heart complains, 

And cries for the red rose, that nods 

Beyond the wall. 

So to my guide 
I come with prayer : " Go, pluck for me 
One rose. I will not ask the wealth 
Of the rose-tree. Only a bud. 
As yet unblown, shall me suffice." 
Then from my side he goes afield, 
And brings what I have asked ; and more- 
He comes with roses laden. So, 
Content, I go upon my way. 



145 



THE WITHERED ROSE. 

The Daffodils I love, for they 
Come in the early Year, when Spring 
Is cold. But the rich scented Rose 
I worship. Her beauty has the charm 
Of summer time ; even when the sun 
And dew no longer can bestow 
Color and freshness to her cheek , 
And though her petals fade, within 
My chamber still the air is sweet 
With all the old enchantment. vSo 
I hold my Rose the Queen of Flowers ; 
Unlike the faded Daffodil 
Whom I would leave upon her stalk. 
I press her to my lips, and swear 
She is the Summer's fairest one, 
Even dying. 

Her delicate leaves 
Have never unfolded qiiite ; and deep 
Within her heart still burns a drop 



T46 

Of dew. The Sun has never drunk 
Of this deep cup ; and butterflies 
Flew past, not knowing. 

Now, it is night. 
And vSummer is asleep— while I 
Have long been dreaming with my Rose 
I have forgot how fair she was, 
Blooming at morn ; for Beauty charms 
Though Death is near ! Her magic spell 
Is old as time. 



H7 



LOVE AND SORROW. 



When Joy has fled, then Sorrow smiles ; 
For she is constant ; and though Frost 
Has killed my flowers, and my house 
Is desolate, with me she still 
Abides. — Joy is inconstant, yet 
I loved her well ; though knowing all 
Her fickleness and her deceit ; 
For me she loved not. I was born 
Predestined to be Sorrow's own. 
Farewell, dear Joy ! Sorrow and I 
Are one. 

But when the Summer comes, 
Return again ! — Sorrow herself 
Will welcome thee. Constant she is ; 
But Love may turn her heart to thee. 



148 



II. 

When Love is joined to vSorrow, who 

Can dwell with them ? Their house should be 

Swept clear of all intruders. They 

Would shut out all the world. Even Joy 

Is given reluctant welcome. Death 

Alone can come and go at will, 

For he is loved of both. vSo I, 

Whose name is one with Death's, 

Take counsel with them. And I find 

Joy has brought Jealousy ; and Love, 

Looking on Sorrow, is insane ! 

Between them, I have hung a screen 

Of climbing roses. May their scent 

Bring pleasant dreams. 



149 



SILENT COMPANIONSHIP. 



In the fair garden where I dream, there stands 

A marble figure on its pedestal, 

Enwreathed with vines. I planted them, so they 

Should hide the feet of the old sylvan god, 

Whose head serene, with ctown of sculptured 

flowers, 
Rises above. This is the only friend 
To whom I bring the burdens of a Soul 
Freighted too heavily with grief. Silence 
And Nature give the sympathy I crave ; 
And when I lift my eyes I see his brow 
Soft in the starlight ; while a gentle wind 
Stirs the dark vine to whisper tenderly, 
That in my garden I am not alone, 
With my undying Sorrow. 



ISO 



II. 

Sometimes I wish he would descend, and sit 

Beside me ; and that I might feel a hand 

In mine, while the dark Night is deepening 

Around. But never moves he from his stone 

Where the great Master Workman placed him, long 

Ago. So then I lean my brow against 

The friendly vines ; and almost have I prayed 

To this old image. He might answer me. 

Had he a language that could reach the ear. 

Of mortals. But we are dull ; and so we miss 

The meanings of the Gods, unless they play 

On pipes, leading the dance with nymphs, far in 

The shades of groves Arcadian. Often 

We hear their notes at Twilight, or the Dawn. 



151 



ARACHNE'S ROBE. 

On days when fair Arachne spins ; and flowers are left 

To droop untended in the sun ; her lover's soul 

Is wrung with sadness ; for the hours to him have all 

Been wasted. Butterflies have flaunted wings of gold 

And silver, shaming the dark texture lustreless 

His Lady wears. Why should she spend the fleeting days 

In irksome tasks, to such a thankless end ? For he 

Who dwells beside the azure lakes, beneath the skies 

Of gold and purple splendor, cares no more to look 

On sober colors, woven in the shade, with toil 

And weariness. 

Far better had it been, if she 
Had come into the fields, and seen the lilies grow, 
She might have worn the Ev^ening's veil ; or clothed herseli' 
In meadow mist. Her lover would have been content. 



152 



THE LAUREL 



Where the rude hills have borne the Oaks, 

Among their hardy trunks I saw 

The Lady Laurel, peering forth 

On the highway. Why she should choose 

To keep her tryst with June so far 

From the great cities, where her name 

Would give her precedence, I know not. 

Here the rustics make her room 

Below the honeysuckle, when 

They ask her to their feasts. Scarcely 

Do they remember she is sought 

By Heroes and by Poets. So 

I wonder why she waits beneath 

The Oak, upon the rugged hills. 



153 



II. 

The winds among the Oaks have brought 
Sweet incense to the Laurel. They 
Have blown across far lands and seas 
And heard the Lady Laurel named 
Among great princes. 

Who have asked 
That she might crown them at the end, 
Then the world's fight was won ; or hang 
Her garlands on their tombs. Beauty 
And strength spring from the scanty soil 
Wliere skies are pure. 

So here the Laurel 
Comes ; and breathes the mountain air. She holds 
Pink flowers to bribe the passer-by, 
That he may spare her leaves. They are 
For other hands. 



154 



WORDLY GOODS. 

I have been gathering- fallen leaves. 
A little time they wear the tints 
Lent by decay; but soon they fall 
To dust, and wither ; so the wreath 
I wove of them no more delights. 
Now will I go with brows uncrowned, 
And empty hands, since Summer's flowers 
Are gone. 

And as I walk in Shade, 
Hearing the voice of Doves complain, 
I may the Laurel find, that late 
Retains its beauty. Then will I bring 
Rare garlands to the banquet, though 
The fallen leaves are dead. 



155 



MY QUIET HOURS. 



Under the pleasant trees that hold 
The warm sunlight their prisoner, 
Yielding free passage to the breeze ; 
We bring our weariness, and here 
It turns to Rest. 

In the cool shade 
We breathe sweet woodland scents, 
And essences impalpable 
Steal to the blood, and add their power 
To vitalize. When we have passed 
An hour in this pure air, we would 
Not enter again the close-shut room 
Where we have lived before ; for there 
Rest vanishes ; and Weariness 
Seizes again the Soul. 

II. 

So let me raise my tent beyond 
Man's habitations. I would rest 



>56 

Under its airy roof, when night 
Descends from the far hills ; for then 
I should not waste the sacred flame 
Of all-consuming Darkness. Stars 
Would shine in open spaces. Fresh 
And strong the winds of Heaven blow 
About my earthly bed. I can 
No longer dwell beneath the roof 
That shelters Care, and Souls bereft 
Of joy. Only the wilderness 
Invites the blessed Spirits. There 
I will stay. 



III. 



Although I go 
Alone, and they who love me scorn 
My shifting roof (for I shall follow 
The changing Year), yet will I find 
The fairest company beneath 
The sun. 

Innocent children play 
Among the shadows. Maidens, youths, 
And the wisest of all times, are there 
At Dawn and Twilight. They have come 



^S7 

From dwellings that were tombs — like mine ; 

And people now this happier world. 

But the irreverent wSoul that hastes 

To join me in the wilderness, 

Shall miss the path, and vainly seek 

My white tent gleaming in the trees. 



158 



AUTUMN REVERY. 

The Summer's glory is gone by, 

And Autumn rains have spoiled the trees ; 

Yet the soft loveliness that rests 

In faded colors, and the mist 

O'erhanging, but not veiling all 

The beauty of the grove, makes me 

Reflect. 

This is the conquering grace 
That steals into man's heart— the glow 
And finer essence that remain 
When Youth is gone. 

I would not here 
Repeat the whisper of the rain ; 
Nor tell what it hath told all day, 
Falling in quiet pools wherein 
The shadows only flit. Yet while 
It trembles, chilled by haunting looks 
Of cold November, there are dreams 
Of spring among the thin, bare trees ; 



159 

And through the creeping mist I see 
The floating visions dim of long 
Ago. And Death — the mystery — 
Forever weaves his spell about 
My dreams. The rain — the sighing wind- 
Can tell no more in their soft tones 
Than Death has told me, in the days 
When summer still was here ; when gold 
And purple shot the evening sky 
With splendor, caught from fading worlds 
Like mine, that rolls in dusk. 



THE END. 



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